


Fly, Little Birds

by DreamingAngelWolf



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Babysitting, Barney's nice for once, Child Abuse, Gen, Kid Fic, deaf!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingAngelWolf/pseuds/DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha spends a lot of time looking after young Barney and Clint Barton. She knows everything about them, from the lives of their superhero alter-egos to how they like their hot chocolate to be made - which is a lot more than their parents know. In fact, Natasha's not quite sure if Buck Chisholm knows anything about his sons; but even her best efforts to keep them out of harm's way look to be proving futile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meet the Kids

**Author's Note:**

> So, here it is: my first proper Avengers AU! And how could I resist the temptation of 'baby' Clint? He is a picture of total adorableness in my head, though I bet he'd run circles around anyone in real life...!
> 
> So I don't actually know where the inspiration came from, but take this as a sort of alternate way as to how Clint loses his hearing (I kept close to some original details, but tweaked a few others). It's mainly focused on Natasha, but both Barney and Clint have lots to say (Clint more so than Barney, because he's such a chatterbox). Some other familiar faces pop in to say hello, but it's all about Natasha and the Bartons, really. I tried to keep true to personalities and stuff (Barney aside), so if I stray a bit, I heartily apologise - otherwise, I hope y'all enjoy it!

Despite the casual set of her shoulders and the easy smile she gave to passing parents, Natasha Romanoff was always nervous about going to the school. It wasn’t a place she associated with happiness, and she couldn’t help but make assumptions as to what the other parents thought of her: teenage mother, adopted sister, a stranger to be wary of. Some of them tried to talk to her, and she would reply politely enough but only because etiquette required her to, and because it was obvious they were making an effort to be polite too. If she could have it her way, she’d be in and out of the playground in no more than fifteen minutes – but, considering who she was here for, that wasn’t always possible.

“Tasha!”

“Hey, squirt.” Smiling at the nickname, Natasha crouched down as the five-year-old bundle of energy known as Clint Barton hurtled towards her. She caught him easily as he threw his arms around her neck, unable to suppress a grin of her own as she squeezed him warmly back (and still, after nearly a year of doing this, it amazed her that this little boy could provoke such a response from her). “You got everything?”

Clint stepped back and nodded enthusiastically. “Have you got my bow?”

“No, Clint,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “You know the bow’s only for the garden.” He whined, dropping his chin to his chest. “Hey – you’ve got some time before we go. Why not be Hawkeye without a bow for a bit, hmm?” 

“Okay!” he chirped, slinging his bag off his back and darting towards the playground’s jungle gym. Natasha watched him fondly as he swung himself around the climbing frame, wondering what new adventure he was talking himself through as the Amazing Hawkeye. He was always talking, Clint – never seemed to run out of batteries. 

Scanning the next wave of children to come out ten minutes later, Natasha smiled at the brown-haired boy who approached them. “Hey Barney. You okay?”

Nine-year-old Barney Barton stopped in front of her and gave her a half-smile. “Hi Nat. I’m fine.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “You sure?”

He shrugged, scuffing his shoe on the ground. “‘s just Bobbi, that’s all.” Bobbi was a girl Barney ‘like-liked’ in his class. As far as Natasha could tell, she was unfortunately oblivious to the fact, and Barney was too shy to do anything about it. One day, Natasha thought, she’d make him outright tell her – but for now, she suppressed an eye roll and ruffled his hair. 

“What have I told you about that? Stop moaning and do something about it.” He just shrugged again, and she gave up. “Okay. I’ll say no more. Go fetch your brother and let’s get home.”

Clint talked non-stop for the entire thirty minute walk. Normally, if anybody else she knew prattled on the way he did for that length of time, Natasha would make them stop, one way or another; with Clint, though, she sort of liked it – maybe because it was young, she thought, but mainly because it was who he was. If Clint was quiet, it meant something was up and he was upset. She didn’t like seeing him upset. Barney was harder to read in that sense, but only because he was quieter than his chatterbox brother. He worried more than Clint, which was understandable given his circumstances, but Natasha was yet to get him to really open up to her. In Barney, she was loathe to admit, she could see herself as a young girl: full of worry where there should be happiness.

The closer they got to home the more tense Barney became. It was a subtle change, but one she’d seen a few times before – he would happily keep up with Clint’s ramblings, but his contributions would gradually decrease until he was more or less oblivious of what they were talking about. His pace would slow, too, and a fearful edge would appear in his eyes. The first time she’d noticed it, Natasha had asked and been told that Barney didn’t get on well with his father when he was at home. As their childminder, there wasn’t a lot she could do about that, and while she felt bad about delivering them both to someone at least one of them didn’t want to be around, she didn’t want to lose her job; she couldn’t face Phil’s disappointment again.

When she opened their front door Clint shot through like a falcon, racing upstairs to a soundtrack of childish action hero noises. Barney was slower, taking his shoes off carefully whilst keeping his eyes on the lounge door. He all but froze when their father walked through, a scowl on his dark face and a glass of water in one hand. “Mr Chisholm?” He stopped, turning his head slightly to glare at Natasha from bloodshot eyes. “What time would you like me back again, sir?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral.

Buck Chisholm grunted. “Soon as you can,” he growled, and disappeared into the kitchen without sparing a glance for his son. 

“Alright, then. I’ll be back at six, Barney, okay?” The little boy was grinning at his shoes, and Natasha cleared her throat. “Something funny?”

The smile faltered a little, and Barney fiddled with his shoelace before answering. “When you call him Mr Chisholm, it makes him sound like he’s not our dad,” he explained softly, and as he turned to smile at her again she saw a brightness in his eyes that hadn’t been there when she picked him up. 

She rolled her eyes at him. “Barney Barton, you need to be careful. Now I’m coming back at six, so keep Clint out of trouble and make sure he’s ready by then, okay?” Barton was their mother’s name, and they only took it because she wasn’t actually married to Buck. Natasha wondered why she was with him at all, but kept her mouth shut. She was just the childminder, after all. 

Barney turned sad again when she left, and though it tugged at her heart a little she made her way quickly home. The clouds were coming in, and tipping her head back she imagined that it meant a storm was coming, too, or that they could sense the tension in her world at that moment. Clint would be devastated if it rained – he wouldn’t be able to play with his little bow, and that made him more likely to be hyper when she went back for them later. She better start thinking of places to take them if the worst happened.

“I’m home,” she called once she’d let herself in. It was obvious that Phil was home: his jacket was hung up by the door, but there was no sign of him in the living room. He was most likely in his study, or maybe the kitchen, so Natasha went straight through to pour herself a drink. Her guardian appeared a moment later.

“How was your day?” he asked. 

“Routine,” she responded, slipping the glass into the dishwasher. “I’m picking the boys up at six. Do you know if it’s forecast to rain?”

“A shower maybe, nothing too big.”

She sighed. “Wonderful.”

“Bruce called while you were out,” he informed her. “He wanted to know if you were available this evening. I told him to come round at six.”

Pausing in the doorway, Natasha turned and stared at him. “Phil, what the hell?”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t aware you had plans already, Natasha. If you don’t want to see him, call him and tell him so.”

Scowling, she went to pick up the phone and call Bruce – to tell him to come at a different time. Phil was always doing stuff like this. He was her longest-standing guardian to date, and (if she was honest with herself) probably her favourite. He was unassuming, calm, a straight-thinker and an even straighter talker. He understood her boundaries and expectations, and made sure she understood his. There was respect between them to the point where she almost trusted him completely, but her trust was something that was, by now, very hard to gain. It wasn’t that people didn’t deserve it – if anything, Phil Coulson may actually deserve her trust – more that she couldn’t bring herself to give it away so easily. Anyone who’d been in a care system as shitty as hers would feel the same, she was sure.

“Hello?”

“Hey Bruce.”

“Hi Natasha – what’s up?”

“Phil told me you called earlier.”

“Oh, yeah, I just wanted to know if you were up to anything later, that’s all. He said I could come round at six.” Her friend’s tone turned hesitant. “Is that okay?”

“Can you come a bit earlier?” she asked. “I’m taking some kids out at six, but you’re welcome to tag along.” She smirked. “I may need the company.”

“Are you sure? I mean, yes, that’d be fine, but I wouldn’t want to be in the way or anything.”

“Bruce, they’re kids. They won’t care.”

“But what if I…”

She knew what he was trying to say, and closed her eyes to stop herself from yelling at him down the phone. “It’s a pub, Bruce. It’ll be me, you, and two under-tens. We can’t drink, it’s way before old men time, and it’ll probably be fairly dull. You aren’t going to flip.”

He sighed. “Alright. Is quarter to too early?”

“Quarter to sounds fine. See you then.”

Phil was there as she put the phone down, toast in one hand, laptop in the other. “Now, some would say I’ve just done you a favour.”

“Really? Pray tell, what favour was that?” she drawled, hoping the snarky tone was as obvious as she intended it to be.

He sat at the opposite end of the sofa. “You’d be bored looking after Barney and Clint on your own. Now you’ll have someone your own age to help you.”

About to throw a comment back at him, she stopped herself and realised Phil was right. The Barton kids were great, but her life more or less revolved around them, and chances are they’d want to play in the child’s area when they got there. The idea of sitting in a pub on her own for God knows how long wasn’t appealing. Narrowing her eyes at him instead, she said, “I still think you’re a spy, you know.”

He snorted. “Yeah. My first name’s actually Agent, not Phil.”

“Whatever, old man.”

“Hey, I’m not that old,” he protested as she left for her room. It made her smile, but she hoped he hadn’t seen it. Settling down to do some work of her own, she missed the first few raindrops that tapped against the window, echoes of something greater happening somewhere else.


	2. We're All Superheroes

Bruce arrived at her door at precisely five forty-five, quite wet and bedraggled-looking. Natasha had been waiting for him, but it was only when she realised how soaked through he was that she registered the fact that it was raining. “Great,” she growled as they walked shoulder to shoulder under her umbrella. “Clint’s likely going to be a bit hyper,” she warned him, “he hates being cooped up indoors.”

“I know how he feels,” Bruce said. “How old is he?”

“Five. Barney’s nine.”

“Guess they keep you busy, then?”

Hearing the unsaid meaning, Natasha gave him a pained look. “Bruce, I know we don’t spend much time together, but you know I hate sitting around not doing something.”

“Yeah… I understand. It’s just, I’ve missed you Natasha. Everyone else is scared of me.”

She let her lips twitch into a smirk. “How can anyone be scared of you?” Ignoring his ‘that’s not funny’ look, she pulled out the keys to the Bartons' house and told him to stay put with the umbrella. “Hello?” she called out, slipping inside. “It’s me, Natasha.” No answer – perhaps Buck had gone out already. “Boys?” Again, nothing – except for the hushed sound of someone covering up a giggle off to her left. 

“Sshh!”

Natasha smiled. This was a familiar game: she was now an ‘enemy’, one whom the legendary Trickshot and Hawkeye had to take down before one of them was kidnapped. Stealthily, she crept forward towards the stairs, pretending to scan her surroundings, snapping her head round again at the sound of a sneeze. It had come from her left again, in the living room – 

There was a soft ‘twang’, and something stuck to the back of her shoulder. Looking round, she was hardly surprised to see a bright yellow suction-cup arrow clinging to her coat, and flicked her eyes up to find the guilty party – namely one Clint Barton. “You tricked me!”

He giggled. “She’s wounded, Trickshot!”

“Wounded?” Natasha echoed. Then, without batting an eyelid, she spun around and scooped up a sneaking Barney, ignoring his squeals and shouts as she tucked him under one arm, turning back to face Clint. “Hawkeye, you know that your arrows are useless against me. Now I have a hostage – what are you going to do?”

“Hawkeye, help!” Barney called between laughter.

“Hold on, Trickshot!” With all the bravado of a lion cub that thinks itself invincible, Clint threw himself at Natasha’s legs, sticking another arrow to her thigh triumphantly. It did him little good. With a sigh, Natasha shifted her grip on Barney before reaching down and wrapping an arm around his brother, hoisting him up as well.

“Boys,” she said above the giggling and squealing. “You should know better than to take on the Black Widow alone.” As they protested and clamoured, she carried them both outside and plopped them down in front of a startled Bruce, crouching in front of them both as they recovered from their little adventure. “Now. Are you both ready to go out?”

“Yes,” they said, nodding. She raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t wanna leave my bow!” Clint whined. 

“No bows in restaurants, Clint. Go on.” He pouted, shoulders drooping as he trudged back inside. “Barney, can you go and find your coats please? And make sure Clint doesn’t take any arrows with him.”

“Okay.” Barney dashed around her with less of a fuss, and as she straightened up Bruce pulled the arrow from her shoulder with a smile on his face.

“Trickshot and Hawkeye?”

Natasha sighed. “Yes. Barney’s Trickshot, and Clint’s Hawkeye. They’re their superhero counterparts. And before you ask, it was their idea to make me their enemy.”

“So you have a nickname too?”

“Black Widow.”

He nodded. “Fitting.”

“Hey!”

The boys reappeared then. “Where are we going today Nat?” Barney asked, pulling on his coat while Clint held his up to her.

“Can’t you put this on yourself yet?” He shook his head, and she rolled her eyes. “We’re just going to a pub, Barney. It’s not too far away,” she told him, crouching down to help Clint with his coat.

Barney looked Bruce up and down, eyes wary at the stranger’s presence. “Who’re you?”

“My name’s Bruce. I’m a friend of Natasha’s.”

“Bruce is coming to dinner with us,” she told them, “so you two be nice to him, okay?”

Barney nodded as Clint waved at her friend. “Hi!”

“Hey there.”

“My name’s Clint, and this is Barney!”

Squatting down, Bruce held out his hand, smiling when Clint took it enthusiastically. “Nice to meet you both.”

“Does Tasha look after you too?” he asked as they headed off to the pub.

“In a way,” Bruce said, giving her a side glance.

“Bruce goes to school with me,” she explained.

Clint grinned. “Really?” Bruce nodded. “But, but you look like a teacher!” he giggled. He seemed to be in a giggly mood, Natasha noticed, and blamed the rain whilst simultaneously praying he would behave at dinner.

Pushing his glasses up his nose, Bruce glanced at her anxiously. “I do?”

She shrugged. “Bruce is just very smart,” she told the five-year-old. “Like Tony in your class.”

“Tony’s not a teacher!”

“And neither is Bruce.”

“So why does he look like one?”

“Maybe because my dad is a doctor,” Bruce suggested, and Clint seemed happy with that answer. “What does your dad do?” he asked before Natasha could stop him.

“Drinks,” Barney said quietly, still regarding Bruce from a distance. He didn’t take his eyes off him, even when Natasha moved to wrap an arm round his shoulders comfortingly.

“Mr Chisholm used to be in the circus,” she said lightly. Bruce nodded, a sympathetic look on his face. 

“Yeah, used to be,” Barney emphasised, kicking a stone ahead of him as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. 

“He did really cool stuff, like, like, like Robin Hood!” Clint said excitedly, jumping up and down to get Bruce’s attention. “And he got me and Barney bows and arrows too! I’m called Hawkeye, and he’s called Trickshot, and Tasha is the Black Widow ‘cause she’s like a spider, but she’s a bad guy that me and Barney have to stop, or else she’ll steal all our weapons, and they’re top secret so she’s not allowed to know about them!”

Bruce nodded, as if this was indeed serious business. “Well, if you need a hand stopping her, I’d be willing to help.” Natasha shoved his shoulder and he grinned at her.

Clint frowned. “You play superheroes too?”

“People call me the Hulk,” Bruce said wryly, and Natasha frowned disapprovingly at him.

“What’s your superpower, then?”

“The Hulk has super-strength and invincibility,” Natasha cut in, preventing her friend from giving his view on what his ‘powers’ were.

“Wow! Really?”

“Isn’t that cheating?” Barney asked, squinting at Bruce. He shrugged.

“Hawkeye’s powers are – he has super-vision,” Clint babbled, “and he can fire an arrow anywhere and never miss!”

“He doesn’t,” Natasha agreed.

“And what does Trickshot do?” Bruce asked Barney.

“I’m just the same as Hawkeye, only better.”

“No you’re not!”

“Yeah I am. I’m older, so I’ve been doing it longer, so I’m better.”

Natasha stepped in before Clint could retaliate. “Boys, we are not having an argument today, understand?” They both mumbled apologies, and she let Clint run on ahead as they got closer and the rain eased up. Barney stayed close, not joining in with their conversation but letting Bruce ask him questions and correcting Natasha when she got something wrong. He perked up when they got inside, joining in with Clint when he begged to be let on the indoor jungle gym.

“Please Tasha?”

“We’ve been cooped up all day!”

She raised an eyebrow. “So you want to spend more time playing indoors?”

“This is different!” Clint insisted.

“Come on, Nat! Please?”

“We’ll be good!”

Picking up a menu, she placed it pointedly in front of them both. “Maybe after you’ve eaten – but you have to behave yourselves. Vy ponimayete?”

“Da,” Barney replied, happy enough with the arrangement. Clint just nodded.

“Good. Now, you can choose a main and a dessert, but only if you eat all of your main course, alright?”

Dinner passed quite quickly. The Barton boys behaved themselves very well: Clint chatted animatedly to Bruce, and only had to be reminded not to talk with his mouth full once. Barney was quiet, as usual, but seemed just as excited as his brother when Natasha finally let them loose on the jungle gym. An odd silence settled in their places, broken by a soft chuckle from Bruce.

“They have quite a presence, don’t they?”

Leaning back against the bench’s cushions, she sighed. “I have to say, I’m impressed you put up with Clint as well as you did. People are usually a little weirded out by his enthusiasm for superheroes.”

Bruce shook his head, still smiling. “It’s nothing. I’m only a little confused as to why Robin Hood isn’t mentioned more often.”

“Oh, Robin Hood can’t compare to Buck Chisholm, apparently. Their father,” she explained.

“And Barney?”

“Doesn’t adore him the way Clint does.”

“What do you think of him?”

What Natasha Romanoff thought of Buck Chisholm could be better expressed in Russian, but aside from the fact it wasn’t ‘clean’, she doubted Bruce would understand. “He’s a drunk, selfish prick who’s too wrapped up in his own self-pity to care about his family. He pays me, though, and I don’t want that to stop, so I keep my nose clean and the kids out of his hair. Or what little he has left, anyway.”

Her friend snorted. “And he trumps Robin Hood?”

“I know. I’ve tried to convert him, but Chisholm can’t be replaced in Clint’s eyes.” She sighed. “For someone with such extraordinary vision, you’d think he’d notice his father’s shortcomings.”

“He’s five,” he reminded her.

“Which is why I want him to see – before it’s too late, and he gets hurt even more.”

Bruce frowned. “Even more?”

Natasha chewed her lip, leaning closer and dropping her voice. “I think Buck lashes out sometimes,” she told him. “Verbally, I mean. I walked in on him shouting at Clint once, and he was devastated; I couldn’t get him to calm down for half an hour, and then he only got more upset when I had to leave again. I don’t even know what he’d done!”

“Have you said anything to anyone?”

“I mentioned it to Phil, but there’s not a lot he can do.” Sighing, she raked her fingers through her hair. “It’s probably nothing. I guess I feel kind of protective towards them – maybe a bit too protective.”

At that point, Barney ran up to their table, his cheeks rosy red and dark hair ruffled up. He held his jumper out to Natasha. “Could you look after this please Nat?”

“Sure.” Reaching out to take it, she paused and frowned. “Is your arm alright, Barney?”

Just under his t-shirt sleeve, a purple mark shone brightly on his skin. He glanced down at it, the brightness in his eyes dimming. “Uh, yeah, it’s fine.”

“Can I see it?” He edged closer reluctantly, and let her pull the sleeve up. She grimaced as she saw how big it was, it’s deep colour suggesting it had happened recently. “How did this happen?”

“Clint got a bit too rough, that’s all.”

“Does your dad know?”

He nodded, tugging his sleeve out of her fingers. “I put some ice on it already. It’s fine, Nat. Honest.”

“If you’re sure,” she said as he ran off again. Concerned, she turned to Bruce.

“You think he’s lying?” he asked.

“Clint’s never that rough,” she said. “He doesn’t do rough-and-tumble, really.”

“So…”

“So something’s either happening at home or at school.” But he would have told her if something was going on at school, she thought.

When she finally called them back from the play area, both boys were pleasantly exhausted, and Barney had cheered up considerably. Natasha ended up carrying Clint home, exchanging grins with Bruce when the little boy fell asleep on her shoulder and saying goodbye to him at their door. She was relieved to see that Buck hadn’t returned from wherever he’d gone to drown his sorrows, and stayed with the boys until it was time for them to get into bed.

“All set?” she asked Clint as he grabbed his stuffed bird and burrowed under the covers. He nodded, and she smiled. “Good. Clint?” A thought crossed her mind, and she decided to ask before it stopped her from sleeping. “Did Barney hurt himself in the jungle gym today?”

“No,” he mumbled.

“Do you know where the bruise on his arm came from?” He nodded. “Will you tell me?”

“He got it when he was keeping me out of trouble.”

“What does that mean?” she asked gently.

“I got in trouble with Daddy and Barney told me to go to my room, then I heard shouting, and then Barney came and asked me if I was okay and told me to be good for him.”

“For who?”

“Daddy.”

“Okay.” Leaning in to kiss the top of his head, Natasha said “Night Clint,” and slipped out as his eyes finally shut. She went to check on Barney, but he appeared to have got himself into bed and was already asleep, so she left him to it. After scrawling a quick note for Mr Chisholm (even though she doubted he’d read it), she let herself out and hurried back home, trying to push down her worry for the two little boys in her care.


	3. Life Is Not Just a Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Virtual cookie if you can spot the Jeremy Renner crossover in this chapter ;-)

Over the next few weeks, Natasha watched the Bartons and their father as closely as she could, but for what she didn’t know for certain. Buck appeared to change little, still self-obsessed and drunk whenever she caught a glimpse of him, and Clint continued to chatter like an overexcited parrot. Barney, however… something was different about him, and Natasha knew it was linked to the bruise she’d spotted. She had more or less been told what happened by Clint, but if it was one incident there wasn’t really anything solid for her to pester Phil about. And yet there was some form of evidence right in front of her – she knew it.

Natasha didn’t take the boys to school, a distant neighbour did; so it wasn’t until she went to pick them up that she found out Barney hadn’t gone that day.

“We don’t have to wait today ‘cause Barney’s not here,” Clint told her when she suggested he go and play for a bit.

She raised her eyebrow. “Oh? Is he alright?”

“Um, well Daddy said that he couldn’t go in today and that I shouldn’t ask why and not make a fuss ‘cause I still had to go.”

“Did he now,” she muttered. Clint talked happily to her all the way home, but Natasha couldn’t have told anyone what he said. Following him inside, she hurried upstairs to Barney’s room, only to find it empty. Worried, she ran back downstairs, and finally saw the note attached to the back of the door; it explained how Buck had taken Barney to the doctors, and that they’d hopefully be back by dinner. It was a perfectly reasonable explanation, and generous of Buck to do that without asking her. There were two things about that that bugged her, though: ‘perfect’ and ‘generous Buck’.

Clint played outside until it rained, when she convinced him to tackle some homework before he could watch TV. As five o’clock rolled around, the youngster beamed as he put his pencil down, seconds before the sound of a key turning in the lock. “Can I watch tele now please Tasha?”

Natasha nodded absently. “Sure Clint, but keep the volume down, okay? I think your brother’s back.”

He jumped down from his chair as she rose from hers, walking to the hallway to see Buck and a tired looking Barney step through, and even as she heard Clint ask “Where’s the clicker?” she found herself frowning at the other boy worriedly.

“Hi Mr Chisholm,” she greeted, surprised to see him not drunk for once.

“Hey,” he grunted back as Barney all but fell against her, burying his face into her waist and wrapping his arms around her.

“Hey you,” she murmured, running her fingers through his hair. “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s the clicker?”

“Stomach bug, that’s all,” Buck grumbled, scrunching up the note he left on the door. “Come on, kid, upstairs now.” Barney nodded, letting his arms fall from Natasha’s waist unhappily.

“Do you want me to get him settled?” she asked quickly.

Buck stared at her for a minute, both of them ignoring another “Where’s the clicker?” from the living room before he jerked his chin up, a familiar half-scowl darkening his face. As he continued to glower his way into the kitchen, Natasha guided a heavy-lidded Barney upstairs to his room, making sure to close the door behind her.

“You not feeling so good, huh tiger?” she asked as Barney lay down on top of his bed. Face half-buried in his pillow, he shook his head, and she knelt down to put her on the same level. “Don’t you want to be under the covers?” After a pause where he seemed to process what she was saying, he groggily sat up and let Natasha help him underneath the duvet, snuggling down quickly once he was underneath. “There. Glass of water?” Another head shake. “Okay then. Is there any medicine you need?”

“Dad’s got everything,” he mumbled. “Don’t need anything now.”

She nodded, still wondering at that. “Are you sure you don’t want to change into your –”

“No.”

Natasha blinked. “No pyjamas? Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He was oddly adamant about not wearing them, but she let him have his way – it truly looked like he was unwell, and though a large part of her brain wanted to suspect Buck Chisholm was up to no good with his older son another much, much smaller part was beginning to say ‘maybe he was just being a good dad for once’. Still, when she ventured back downstairs (Clint was still asking “Where’s the clicker?”), she bumped into Father of the Year himself.

“You don’t have to fuss over him,” he told her whilst pulling on a coat. “Doctor told me what to do. I can handle it.”

Tucking away the scathing Russian retort that flitted across her mind, Natasha smoothed her features. “If you’re sure. I don’t mind staying a bit longer to help out, though.”

“Good, ‘cause someone needs to watch Clint.”

She disguised her frown as he pulled on a cap, asking lightly, “Going somewhere?”

He eyed her suspiciously. “Yeah. Why?” His tone was gruff, telling her she was probing too deep for his liking.

She rubbed the back of her head, like she was nervous. “No reason really… just wondering if I should call home to say I’ll be late, that’s all.” She didn’t need to – Phil knew she could look after herself as long as she let him know if it was going to be more than a day before she returned. He would leave her with leftovers in case she missed dinner, too, which she intended on doing tonight. Natasha didn’t take other people’s food.

Apparently satisfied with her reason, Buck grunted and left her in the hall without saying goodbye. Swearing quietly at the piece of wood in Russian, Natasha wandered back into the living room, where a bored looking Clint was sat in the armchair, watching a blank television screen. “A TV only works if you turn it on, squirt. Hawkeye doesn’t have telepathic powers, does he?”

“Can’t find the clicker,” he grumbled.

“Have you tried under the cushions?” When his face lit up she rolled her eyes, and after retrieving the dastardly clicker Natasha distracted herself by watching cartoons with him. Over dinner later on – chicken nuggets and chips, because that was all she could find – he told her about his lunchtime ‘rescue’ of a frog that had strayed from the school pond.

“And Captain America – that’s Steve – used his instructable shield to stop Froggy getting hurt, while me and Tony – uh, Iron Man – blasted the evil Frog-eaters out of his way!”

“You mean indestructible.”

“Oh. Anyway, it was really hard, and, and Iron Man’s suit nearly broke, and I ran out of arrows! But eventually we got Froggy back to his pond, and he was real glad to get back in the water. We promised we wouldn’t let any more Frog-eaters get to the pond too, so we gotta stand guard tomorrow or else.” He frowned. “Tasha?”

“Hmm?”

“Will he be okay on his own at night?”

“Froggy? Sure he will,” she said casually, picking up a plate for Barney. “The pond will be dark at night, so no Frog-eaters will be able to see him.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah. Now stop talking for a minute and eat some more dinner. I’m going to see if your brother’s well enough for food.”

Barney was still asleep when she ventured upstairs, so she left the plate on his desk with a little note telling him to let her know if he wanted it warming up. Then it was back downstairs to convince Clint that his mouth only needed to be open when he was putting food in it, wash up, and endure a quiet game of hide and seek (somehow, and she still didn’t know how, the kid always found her. Always). It was during round three when it was her turn to be the seeker again – it had taken her nearly forty minutes to find Clint during round one – that she spotted someone else instead. He was helping himself to a glass of water, and seemed too occupied to notice her stood in the kitchen doorway.

“Thought you didn’t want to wear your pyjamas?” Natasha said, watching with hands on her hips as Barney jumped at the sound of her voice.

He chewed his lip. “I… changed my mind.”

Simply nodding, she let her hands drop and changed her tone. “You feeling better?”

“A bit.”

“Did you eat?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Anytime. You wanna help me find your brother? We’re playing hide and seek, and you know what he’s like.”

At first, Barney looked like he would say yes, then his face dropped and he stared glumly into the glass of water. “I’d love to, but the doctor said I shouldn’t over-exert myself, so…”

“Oh.” She’d never been told that for a stomach bug before. “Well, you don’t have to stay upstairs you know. Why don’t you put a film on?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?” Barney didn’t answer. “Are you tired?” He shrugged. “Well then I highly doubt you’re too sick to watch a film, Barney. What’s the problem?”

“Nothing.”

“Really?”

“Nothing, Nat!”

“Barney.”

Hearing his name in the Black-Widow-tone, Barney shuffled on the spot as he mumbled, “I’m worried Dad’ll come back and get mad at me for being up.”

Taking a moment to absorb that, Natasha laid her hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Barney,” she said softly, “is everything alright? I mean really alright?” She looked into his eyes. “You promise me it’s just a stomach bug?”

He nodded, not breaking her gaze. “Yeah.”

Waiting to see if he’d change his mind and tell her something, she eventually sighed. “Okay. But please remember, if anything happens at all – you get hurt, Clint gets hurt, anything like that – you can call me. I want you to promise me that, too – da?”

“I promise, Nat.” Barney’s voice was too solemn for a nine-year-old. For a moment, it reminded her of a promise she made to someone else once, a very long time ago. He was long gone now, and their promise with him, but she’d never made another one like it until now. And how strange, she thought, that her role had changed this time; more than nine years ago, she had been in Barney’s shoes.

“Good.” Stepping off memory lane, Natasha smiled reassuringly. “Wanna go choose a movie while I find Clint?” When he hesitated, she added, “I won’t let your dad get angry with you if he gets back.”

Twenty minutes later, having retrieved Clint from his hiding place (“How did you get on top of the wardrobe? No, on second thoughts, don’t tell me; the less I know the better.”), she was sat with a Barton either side of her, one glued to ‘X-Men’, the other ‘resting his eyes’ against her shoulder, mouth slightly open as he dreamed of saving frogs worldwide with an endless supply of arrows (Clint would insist on telling her about his purple outfit the next day, and Natasha and Barney would exchange secret grins at his ridiculous description). Little else was said between her and Barney over the next few days, but it didn’t matter – he seemed, if anything, happier after making that promise. In truth, Natasha wished they hadn’t needed to make it in the first place.


	4. Tell-tale

Barney’s stomach bug didn’t last long. He went back to school, receiving a fleeting hug from Bobbi on his return (something he out-talked Clint about on the way home), and didn’t even complain about the amount of catch-up work he had to do at home. There was one final trip to the doctors that his father took him on one day – with typically no explanation – but after that he was more or less his old self. Natasha really shouldn’t have expected it to last.

“Clint, stop scaring the ducks!” She saw him pout at her over his shoulder, before his attention reverted to superhero mode and he went charging off towards the slide. Sighing, she slumped back against the bench, running her fingers through her hair. “Y’know, I’m still not sure I’d cope with kids.”

Next to her, Bruce shrugged. “You’re doing better than me,” he commented.

She snorted. “Yeah, but I know these two and I’m still unsure.”

“Why are you worried about that now, anyway?”

“No reason.” Natasha turned to scrutinise him. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it?”

He graced her with that wry, almost self-deprecating smile of his. “I try not to.”

Shaking her head, she let it drop, casting her gaze back over the park’s playground to find the kids; Clint was hanging upside down from the monkey bars, his giddy laughter making her smile, and Barney was – Natasha frowned. “Do you recognise him?” she asked, pointing to the man Barney was talking to.

Bruce shook his head. “No. Should I?”

Standing, she started to head off in Barney’s direction. He saw her coming, looking at her anxiously, and the stranger he was talking to looked at her as well. Instantly, he made her spine crawl. He turned back to say something to Barney before walking towards her, meeting her half way. “You must be Natasha,” he said, ‘smiling’. He extended a hand; “Name’s Jacques Duquesne. I’m a friend of Buck’s.”

If he thought she was going to respond to his pleasantries, he had another thing coming. “What did you want with Barney?” she asked, tone cold, body language colder. 

Unfazed, Duquesne dropped his hand. “Buck said his kid had been on the rough ground for a bit. I was just asking if he was alright now, that’s all.” He smirked. “He said you’d be uptight about it.”

Natasha forcibly relaxed her stance, smiling politely at Buck’s friend. “Sorry,” she said, “I’m Barney and Clint’s minder. I was just a bit worried about him talking to strangers – I didn’t realise he knew you.”

He chuckled. “Naw, don’t worry about it, princess. No harm done.” He didn’t see Natasha clench her fists, the only way she could stop herself from squirming at being called ‘princess’. “Oh, but uh, if you do chance to see Buck today, would ya give him a message from me? Just tell him I got the job sorted, we can go tonight.”

Natasha nodded. “If I see him, sure.”

Jacques smiled again. “Thanks, sweetheart. You take care of them boys, now – Buck’s pride and joy, they are.”

To her credit, she managed to keep the smile on for as long as it took him to reach the edge of the park. As soon as he was out of sight, though, Natasha made a beeline for Barney Barton, who had stood underneath the jungle gym watching the whole exchange. “Who was he?” she asked.

“He’s one of Dad’s friends,” Barney told her. “Jacques Du-something. We’ve met a few times.”

“Do they work together?”

“A bit. He was with the circus too.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He asked me if I was feeling better, and I said that I was, and he said that maybe I’d be able to spend some time getting to know him a bit more.”

She couldn’t explain why, but the idea of that made her uneasy. After leaving Barney with a five-minute warning, she made her way back to Bruce. “Well that looked fun,” he said dryly as she sat beside him, a frown etched onto her face. “Not good?”

“Not sure,” she murmured, chewing her lip. “He’s a friend of Chisholm’s, apparently. From the circus.”

Her friend nodded understandingly. “Looks like a bit of a creep.”

Natasha laughed a little. “Has anyone ever told you you’re the master of understatement?” He half-shrugged. 

Though she didn’t say anymore about Jacques Duquesne to Bruce, she kept him in her mind for the remainder of the day. She walked the boys back home, relaying his message to their father to them so they could pass it on when he returned later, and was persuaded to play one last game of Heroes before she left. It was the usual scenario: she was Black Widow, evil master assassin, trying to get the jump on Trickshot or Hawkeye before either one of them got her. It was when she started to wrestle with Trickshot that the game abruptly halted.

“Barney?” Rolling onto her hands and knees, Natasha frowned at him as he lay clutching his stomach in front of her. “What’s the matter? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” he said, though it came out as a whimper, leaving her less than convinced.

“Sorry kiddo,” she apologised, scooting closer. “I didn’t mean to get so rough. Mind if I take a look?”

“No! You can’t!” The nine-year-old shot to his feet like a startled cat, but before he could run off Natasha grabbed hold of his shirt.

“Tell me now – what’s going on?” Barney shook his head, trying to get free, so she firmly took hold of his wrist. “Barney.”

He stopped struggling but looked at her unhappily. “Dad made me promise not to tell anyone,” he told her in a small voice. 

She closed her eyes, feeling ice flood her veins. “Do you remember what you promised me?”

“That if me or Clint got hurt, I’d tell you.” She nodded, and waited. “I-it wasn’t Dad’s fault, it was an accident –”

“Show me.” Letting go of his wrist, Natasha watched as he slowly pulled up the hem of his shirt, showing her what had really been wrong with his stomach last week. Taking in the small but long strip of raw, pink flesh, she felt her jaw go slack. “Barney… what happened?” He dropped his shirt, shaking his head, but at her soft pleas he gave in and told her about the ‘jobs’ Buck Chisholm worked with Jacques Duquesne, how they had recently started roping Barney in to help them, and how the last one hadn’t ended so cleanly.

“I tried to climb out of the window too fast,” he explained. “My foot slipped, and some of the glass hadn’t fallen away when Jacques broke it, so it cut my tummy.” He looked up at her from where he sat on the kitchen floor, eyes wide and sincere. “Dad wanted to take Clint.”

“So when you came back from the doctors,” Natasha remembered, “you’d really come back from the hospital?” He nodded. She blinked, hard, but for some reason that just made her vision worse. “You could’ve told me,” she said, voice only shaking slightly as she stared at the blurring cupboards. “Barney, you should’ve –”

“I’m sorry.” His muffled apology was high-pitched and accompanied with a loud sniff. Looking round, she saw him curled in on himself, face buried against his drawn-up knees as he tried not to let her see him cry. Saying nothing, she pulled him into an embrace, tucking his head under her chin and letting him cry into her shoulder. It took a while for Barney to calm down, and only when he was leant against her, dry-eyed and sniffling, did she softly speak.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Barney. Your father has no right to treat you like that.” Quelling her anger, she continued: “If he does, you ring someone. Me, the police, a friend, anyone, and you tell them what he does to you and Clint.”

Barney pressed himself closer. “But he doesn’t like it when we say no.”

Turning herself so she was facing him, Natasha cupped his small face in her hands, wiping away tear-tracks with her thumbs. “Would Trickshot let himself be treated like this?” He looked away uncertainly and she smiled. “Barney Barton, you are one of the bravest boys I’ve ever met. I know you’re strong enough to stand up to bullies like Buck Chisholm, and that you’d do anything to protect Clint. Now – do what you have to to stay out of harm’s way, even if that means telling him ‘yes’; but when he’s not around, that’s your opportunity to tell someone, Barney. Okay?”

Wiping his nose on his sleeve, Barney nodded. “Should I tell Clint that too?”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “And to be sure, I’ll tell someone when I get home as well.” His eyes widened a little, but he didn’t protest.

Natasha made dinner for them once Clint had been found and they had ‘neutralised’ the Black Widow, then made her own way home. Her thoughts were in turmoil with every step, and she was fairly sure she’d bruised her arms where she’d been gripping them when she arrived back. It wasn’t late, only six fifteen, but food was already being prepared when she opened the door.

“I’ll be out later on tonight,” Phil told her over dinner.

She raised an eyebrow. “You? Not working?”

“Ha ha.”

“No, seriously, I thought robots didn’t take breaks?”

“If I didn’t, how would I be able to withstand your deadly wit?” Natasha rolled her eyes, and he continued. “Jasper Sitwell insisted. Apparently his wife’s out of town and he wants to ‘enjoy freedom’ while she’s gone.”

“And that means breaking your oh-so carefully constructed routine?” She smirked. “Guy’s got guts.”

“Leaving you alone in my house for the night? I think it’s me who’s got guts.” If anyone else had said it, Natasha would have been hurt; with Phil, though, she knew it was just banter. It was part of their relationship. She knew he trusted her really, just like she knew that he would order tonic water while Sitwell likely threw back a couple of beers, because even Phil’s idea of switching off was ridiculously safe. She looked forward to a few hours on her own, anyway, and after seeing him off she settled onto the couch with a good book and a dash of wine (why not? Phil only used it for cooking. It was going to waste without her). Before that, though, she expressed her concerns.

“I don’t know exactly what he’s doing to them, Phil,” she finished, “but I don’t like it.”

He nodded, frown lines shadowing his face. “There’s not a lot I can do myself,” he said apologetically, “but I trust you know who to call.”

Natasha grimaced. “I just love talking to Nick Fury,” she grumbled.

“Don’t we all?”

“He could easily be a spy as well, you know.”

“How so?”

She listed off the reasons. “Eye-patch, penchant for black clothes, seemingly no personal background, tendency to say things like orders –”

“Natasha, I doubt anyone you know is a spy,” Phil said dryly, standing up and removing the dinner plates. “And regardless of your opinion of him, I really think you should call him and tell Fury what you told me.”

“Oh, I intend to.” She stood as well, glancing at the phone. “I just hope he takes me seriously.”

Phil frowned. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“Because I’m just a kid?” she retorted with a raised eyebrow.

Her guardian shook his head. “Fury can be reasonable.” He paused on his way through to the kitchen, adding: “And if you pester him enough, he’ll do it to get you to shut up.”

“Wonderful,” Natasha moaned, but fifteen minutes later she was talking to the old agency director, repeating her conversation with Coulson. It went better than she expected, with Fury eventually promising to have the Bartons’ situation looked at.

Having done as much as she could do, there was nothing left but for Natasha to pick up her book, stretch out on the couch and do her best not to worry. She had faith in Barney; he wasn’t stupid, and wouldn’t tell Chisholm what she’d told him, and she was sure he would get Clint to keep his mouth shut too. The idea that Buck could be using them as part of a crime gang, though… Shaking herself, she re-focused on the words of her book, letting time slip away in the background.

It was eight twenty-five when there was a knock at the door. Confused, she dropped a bookmark between her story’s pages, making her way over to the door at a somewhat leisurely pace. Phil didn’t normally have people calling round at this time of night – or any time of day, really – so she suspected it was a sales boy or a neighbour asking for a favour of some sort. The last person she expected to see was Barney Barton.

“Gospodi,” she breathed when she saw him. Pulling him inside quickly, she wasted no time in sitting him on the sofa and running to get him a blanket. She dived into the bathroom on the way back, wetting a flannel, and once she was back downstairs she set about cleaning the cut on the side of his neck, taking in the bruise on his forehead, his bleeding nose and the way he shook under the blanket. “What happened?”

When Barney answered, his voice was so small and broken she barely heard him; “I said no.”


	5. Seeing Is Believing

It was only because of Barney’s presence that Natasha refrained from punching a hole in the living room wall (that and the thought of what Phil would make her do to make up for it after). Instead, she calmly asked him to tell her exactly what had happened.

Barney swallowed. “Well, Dad came home, and he was drunk, so I told Clint to go and hide somewhere in case he got in the way, and then Dad started telling me about this place he wanted me to help him break into with Jacques, but when he started telling me to get my shoes on I told him I didn’t want to help him. So, so then he, um… he hit me on the nose, and asked me where Clint was. I told him I didn’t know and he chased me. He threw a bottle at me, and it hit my neck.”

“Where did this come from?” Natasha asked, touching the purple lump on his forehead.

He sniffed. “I hit my head on the table when he hit my nose.”

She dabbed at the blood with the flannel. “Do you know if it’s broken?”

“I didn’t feel it break, and it doesn’t hurt so much anymore.” He chewed his bottom lip. “Nat, Clint’s still there. I – I didn’t think to go and look for him. What if he’s – what if Dad –”

“Hey, hey,” Natasha shushed him, encircling him in her arms as he fought back his tears. “We’re going to sort this out tonight.”

“How?”

Her heart skipped a beat for a second as she suddenly realised she didn’t know. Clint was in danger – regardless of whether Buck was in a good or bad mood, she didn’t doubt he’d get into trouble for hiding, and that wasn’t to say this break-in job was safe as well. But even if she did call the police, would they reach him in time to prevent him from being hurt? Would they even find him if he was still hiding (Clint could hide better than a chameleon at times)? And where would the boys go? There was no other family for them to stay with, and she wouldn’t wish a care home on anybody. What if the police tried to separate –

“Nat?”

Barney’s worried voice snapped her back into action, and a plan began to map itself out in her head. “Alright, here’s what we’re going to do,” she said, holding him at arms length. “I’m gonna finish patching you up, and then I’m going to ask you to be super brave and go back home. Not for good,” she said quickly as he started to look panicked, “but to get Clint. We can’t leave him there. Then you’ll stay with me while the police sort things out, and then you’ll both be safe.”

“Okay…”

Natasha cut a plaster for his neck, wiping the blood from his nose and making sure it really wasn’t broken. Then, as Barney steeled himself to run back home, she handed him her phone, closing his fingers over it securely. “When you and Clint get out I want you to call me,” she told him sternly. “The number’s saved as ‘Coulson’. If he wants his bow and arrow, you can bring them, but don’t waste time finding things to take. Vy ponimayete?”

He nodded jerkily. “Yeah.”

In the back of her mind, she knew this was a stupid plan. She was sending Barney back into potential danger with no way of protecting himself (but she refused to give him a weapon – he was already too much like her) and expecting him to be able to keep both himself and his little brother from getting hurt. As soon as the door closed behind him, she made some calculations: it took her half an hour to walk to the Barton household, so Barney should take twenty minutes tops running, and she was willing to bet he knew a few shortcuts. It would probably take him another fifteen minutes to get in and find Clint, convince him to leave as well, then probably twenty five to thirty minutes to get back to her. In total, she was looking at a thirty-five minute wait for him to call, and just over an hour for them both to be knocking on her door. Her stomach churned. Gods, when had this all gone so wrong?

Deciding not to waste time, she did what Phil had suggested and called Nick Fury, the social worker who had originally brought her into the care system in the first place (and to this day, it was still a mystery to her as to why someone with the surname Fury was allowed to work in child services, particularly when the man behind it lived up to one’s expectations). Fury was surprisingly compliant, understanding her urgency and promising to “send a team out as soon as physically possible”. It reassured her a little – at least until the phone rang not long after.

“Hello?”

“Nat, it’s me.”

Her stomach flipped, but she managed to force a light tone out. “Hey Barney. Did you get Clint out?” He had been faster than she expected.

“No.”

Shit. “What? Why not?”

“Nat, something’s wrong…” If the fear in his voice was anything to go by, Natasha guessed he meant ‘seriously wrong’.

“Okay sweetie – why’s that?”

“Dad – Dad’s on the floor. He’s not moving, a-and Clint…” He sounded close to tears. “Clint’s not moving either… and there’s blood in his ears Nat. His ears are bleeding!”

Natasha didn’t leave time for her world to go cold or slip out of focus. Her actions were clear in her head, as were the next words she said to Barney as she moved to grab her coat and find the gun Phil kept under his pillow. “Stay with him, Barney. Find something to slow the bleeding in his ears and get a coat or blanket to put over him. Look for anything else that’s wrong with him and stop any bleeding. I’m on my way.”

“Hurry Nat,” he whimpered.

“I’m coming Barney, don’t worry – I’ll be as fast as I can.” Screw police – what could they do now? Even as she thought that, Natasha told Barney to call the authorities before hanging up; once Phil's gun was tucked into the back of her waistband, she left at a run for the two boys she would do anything to protect - even if that meant effectively stealing them from their own father.

Just thinking of Buck Chisholm made her furious. How could a man think of treating his own sons that way? Clint was only five! What would have happened to them without her? Cringing away from the thought, Natasha focused on running whilst forming a few scenarios in her head - namely how, if it came to be, she would use the gun without the boys seeing.It wouldn’t be easy, but if the gods were being kind she wouldn’t have to use it. Knowing how to do something didn’t automatically make it enjoyable. All these thoughts and more threw themselves around her head for the full fifteen minutes it took her to reach the house, whereupon she promptly stopped thinking because she couldn’t quite understand what she was seeing.

The front door was open, and Buck’s car was gone. She saw that immediately because it was nearly almost always parked in front of the garage, Buck being too intoxicated to drive it more often than not. The kitchen light was still on, and eventually that was where Natasha went. After all, that could have been where Barney found Clint. “Barney?” she called, looking round for Buck before spotting someone else. “Clint!” 

Clint still lay on the floor, head turned to the side. A large wad of tissues was underneath his ear, and another was on the floor nearby. Blood coloured the tiles and thin paper, too stark against his pale skin. He was too pale. Falling to her knees next to him, Natasha scrambled for her first aid knowledge – stop the bleeding. How? Tissues weren’t good enough, and what if it wasn’t his ears? Her chest tightened, and she shook her head. It was bad enough that Clint looked half-dead already; she didn’t need to make things worse for herself by putting him in worst-case scenarios. Stop the bleeding. Use towels.

Grabbing the kitchen towel from the counter, Natasha pressed it gently either side of Clint’s head, fearful of causing more damage. Like she’d told Barney, she made a quick check over in case there were any more injuries – 

Barney!

“Barney?” she called again, looking round the kitchen. Lowering Clint’s head down carefully, she headed into the living room. “Barney?” He wasn’t behind the couch, nor hiding in the cabinet. She went upstairs; he wasn’t in any of the bedrooms or the bathroom. “Barney!” It was the worst game of hide and seek she’d ever played. Frantic, she ran back into the kitchen, checking again under the table and in the cupboards… and that was when she saw the phone lying in the corner of the room, call light blinking weakly at her. Had he left it there after calling her? Or had he managed to call the authorities? And why was the call light still on?

Curious, she bent down to pick her phone up, holding it against her ear to hear a female voice already speaking on the other end: “…ybody there? Hello? If you can hear me, please answer!”

“H-hello?”

“Hello? Who’s speaking?”

She swallowed. “Natasha,” she told the woman. “Natasha Romanoff.”

“What happened to the little boy, Barney?”

Natasha turned back to Clint. “What do you mean?”

“I was instructing him on how to care for a casualty about three minutes ago when there were sounds of a scuffle. Is he alright?”

Only then did her world freeze in place. Eyes glued to Clint, she could vaguely hear the phone attendant asking her if she was okay, if she knew what had happened, and was she in sight of the casualty. She knew what had happened: she had broken her promise to them. The one adult in their lives whom they had trusted and turned to, and she’d let them both down. Now one needed urgent medical attention, and the other…

Phone forgotten, Natasha found herself back on her knees beside Clint. Without thinking, she lifted him into her arms, cradling his head against her shoulder as she rocked him gently, whispering apologies to him again and again, in English and Russian. Then she bowed her head, and gave in to the sobs threatening to break her apart (and a tiny part of her fleetingly wished she would).

After that, life was a blur of sounds and sights: people in uniform; hands, prying Clint away from her, restraining her as her instincts screamed at his absence; the floor, white, black, and red, cold against her cheek, as the gun was taken from her waistband; colder metal round her wrists; radio talk; blinding coloured lights, too bright in the dark; the back of a police car; questions, for her and from her (but only one set of answers); darkness as she finally gave in to the safety of sleep.

When she finally came round, it was on the floor of a cell. A blanket had been draped over her, and she was in the recovery position. A moment of remembering had her on her feet not a minute later, and having finally caught the attention of one of the cops she was given the One Phone Call. There was no doubt who she was calling.

“Hello?”

“Phil!” It came out sort of choked, and if he hadn’t sounded worried when he first answered the sigh of relief as she called his name was proof enough.

“Natasha! Thank God. Where are you?”

She sniffed. “The police station.”

“What have you done?” His tone was level, as usual, and she could picture his face: calm, but with a weary edge to it, the kind that came from looking after people like herself. Natasha hadn’t realised how much she’d come to rely on Phil Coulson.

“Barney and Clint,” she began, then paused to steady herself. Phil waited. “They were in trouble, so I went to help… but it got bad, Phil.”

“Does this have anything to do with the fact that my gun is missing?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“We’ll deal with it later. I’m coming to get you, and then I want a full explanation of what’s happened, Natasha. Am I clear?”

“Da. Spasibo, Phil.” In the back of her mind she worked out that this meant he had just stuck to a non-alcoholic drink of some sort with Jasper, like she thought he would. Another testament to how well she knew him. During the wait she tried to find out what had happened to Clint, but no matter how polite she was the stoic guards weren’t sharing anything with her. She didn’t realise Phil had even arrived until her cell door was opened, and she was allowed to reclaim her phone. They both stayed silent until they got in the car.

“Tell me what happened. I don’t want to know the whys yet, we’ll address them later.” There was a tiny crease between his eyebrows that didn’t go as she told him all that had happened. She surprised herself by how smoothly she talked, how there were no hitches or stutters as memories printed themselves clearly in front of her eyes again (images she’d never be able to forget). When she finished, she expected Phil to calmly lecture her about using his gun; what he did instead was tell her to put on her seatbelt before pulling out of the car park and turning away from home.

“Where are we going?”

“To the hospital.”

Her stomach flipped. It had been doing that a lot lately. “Phil…”

“Clint needs you, Natasha,” he said gently. “Don’t you want to be there for him?”

“Yes.” Nothing was going to keep him from her now, and as part of her laughed at the cliché she vowed to stop anyone or anything who tried to hurt him again. They hadn’t called her Black Widow for nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone experiencing intense 'feels': I'm sorry... and it's not quite over yet.


	6. Hear No Evil

Some time later – a few hours, that was all she knew – Natasha was allowed to see Clint. She stepped into his room alone at first, taking in the wires and tubes stuck to his tiny, almost lifeless body. Gauze was taped to his ears, and she replayed what the doctor had said in her head: “Until we run the tests, it’ll be hard to say how much hearing he’s lost, but we did our best to repair the damage, and our estimate would be around fifty, maybe seventy-five per cent loss.” Close up, she could see the edge of a bruise underneath the white padding. “Do you know how it happened?”

Natasha had pieced it together; she assumed that, while Barney was running to her house, Buck had found Clint and tried to take him in place of his older son for whatever ‘job’ he and Jacques were planning. Clint had followed his brother’s example and refused. Buck had lost his temper. The rest didn’t need to be said, and the police were hoping Clint would be able to tell them when he was in a well enough state to. In other words, when he could hear them. And though she knew this was entirely Buck Chisholm’s fault, Natasha couldn’t stop blaming herself for not being there, for not helping them sooner.

She cried quietly, even though there was little chance of her waking Clint up. At some point, Phil let himself in, resting a hand on her shoulder in a rare gesture of comfort. She ran dry by the time the doctors gently ushered them out – apparently it was almost two o’clock in the morning, and Natasha had no idea how that was possible. But she complied wordlessly, letting Phil guide her back into the car and then upstairs to bed.

Next morning, as soon as she appeared, he greeted her with a ready-made breakfast of toast and jam with fresh orange juice. “Visiting hours are in one hour,” he said as she ate. “We’ll leave in fifteen minutes.” Natasha nodded, taking another bite of toast. She knew Phil still wanted to talk to her about the whys: why had she taken his gun, why had she gone there alone, why had she let herself end up in a police cell. And, sure enough, the first question came once they hit the road.

“I didn’t quite know what to do,” she admitted when he asked her why she’d sent Barney back to the house alone. “I wasn’t thinking properly.” The next question was about the gun. “It was just a precaution, in case hand-to-hand didn’t work.” And she hadn’t left him a note because? “I didn’t know it would go so badly.”

His reprimand was short, but not spoken harshly. That was the thing about Phil. He never got angry, just… disappointed. “I understand why you did it,” he told her, “but you know there was a much safer way of going about it.”

Clint was asleep when they arrived, and at first Natasha was worried. The nurse explained he had drifted in and out of sleep once the anaesthetic had worn off, and was aware of his ear problems. “As in, he knows he can’t hear, but not that it’s probably permanent.” Phil left to do some work in the lobby, and because they thought Clint might freak out with a stranger in the room. When he did finally wake up, though, the last thing she expected him to do was burst into tears. Natasha found out then how hard it was to comfort a crying five-year-old who couldn’t hear her voice.

Eventually, through use of a whiteboard and pen and some very basic words, she could communicate with Clint again. It was slow, and he was clearly frustrated, but his doctors explained they wanted to make sure his canals had properly healed before fixing up a pair of hearing aids. When the idea was proposed to the little boy, he was so eager to have them that instant that he almost ended up crying again when he realised he would have to wait. He went through the tests, though, and it made Natasha’s heart jump every time his face lit up at the sound of a beep he could hear. Then, almost three weeks after his incident, Clint was finally presented with hearing aids. Putting them in for him, the doctor stepped back. “There. How’s that, Clint?”

Clint’s grin was blinding as he threw up his arms. “I can hear!” he shouted, turning the heads of some of the other children in the ward he’d been moved to. He threw his arms round Natasha’s neck, still unintentionally (or maybe intentionally) shouting down her ear. “Tasha! Tasha I can hear again! Say something, say something!”

“Hello, Clint!” she said through her laughter, and the little boy bounced on his bed with joy. She’d never seen him so happy – and there her smile faltered. There were things Clint hadn’t been told because she’d wanted him to hear them rather than read them, and the police would want to hear his version of what happened. She waited until the excitement had worn off (which took quite a while – Clint had to go round and speak to all the children in his ward to show them he could hear again), then sat Clint next to her on his bed and began the Talk.

“A lot of bad things have happened, Clint,” she began, feeling him shift against her side. “You know you keep asking me where your brother is?” The hope in his eyes as he looked up at her was heart breaking, and she hated what she had to do. She’d avoided the question until now, and he had to know. “Well, the truth is that… we don’t… Nobody knows where Barney is, Clint. There’s a… a possibility your dad took him somewhere without saying, that same night your ears got hurt.” She waited as he processed her words, trying to work out what it all meant.

“Barney’s not coming back?”

She swallowed. “Not right now, squirt. But people are looking for him. They’ll find him one day, and then we’ll have him back.”

Maybe he was too tired, or maybe he was trying to be as brave as his brother had been, but Clint didn’t cry like she’d expected him to. Instead, he burrowed his face into her side and mumbled, “My ears hurt.”

She stroked his hair gently. “Okay. Shall we take your aids out?”

“No!” he cried in alarm, obviously afraid of not being able to hear again.

“Clint, you can’t wear them all the time,” she explained patiently, ignoring his protests. “Your ears will only hurt more if you keep them in.”

“But I like hearing!” he whined, now looking closer to tears than previously.

“Listen,” Natasha soothed, mentally wincing at her poor word choice, “you have to take them out when you’re sleeping, right? So why don’t you go to sleep?” He shook his head, rubbing his ear as he did so, and she frowned. “Clint, you’re tired. I know you like being able to hear again, but you have to get used to not hearing sometimes. I have to go home soon, anyway –”

“No!”

She sighed. “I can’t stay forever, Clint. I’m too big for your bed, anyway!” That earned her a brief smile, and she knew she was winning. “Okay, I need to tell you a few more things: number one, some important people are coming to talk to you tomorrow about what happened to your ears. You can’t be grumpy for them, so you need to sleep; number two, I have a surprise to tell you tomorrow.”

He perked up slightly at the mention of a surprise. “What kind of surprise?”

Natasha shook her head. “You’ll have to find out tomorrow.”

“Tasha!” he moaned.

“Well, if you go to sleep quickly, tomorrow will get here quicker, won’t it?” It was what she’d told them before Christmas last year, and it seemed to work like a charm. To her amazement, it worked here, too – Clint somewhat reluctantly let her take his aids out then settled down to try and go to sleep. She roughly signed to him that she loved him, and he mimicked the heart symbol back at her. On her way out, she made a mental note to look into sign language classes.

“Is everything ready for tomorrow?” she asked Phil as they climbed into the car.

“I believe so. You can double check tonight if you’d like.”

“Yeah. I think I will.” She sighed. “This whole process is going to be a drag, isn’t it?”

“You mean because of paperwork?”

“And all this legal bullshit.”

“The cops are working at finding them, Natasha. They’ll do everything they can.”

“I wish they’d hurry up.” She knew how Clint felt in that sense: impatient, frustrated.

So when tomorrow eventually rolled around, it was a morning of mixed emotions. Natasha knew that all she had to do was make it through the police visit without snapping at them in some way, and told Clint the same thing. "If you do exactly what they ask, I can tell you my good news quicker, okay?"

"What are they gonna make me do Tasha?" he asked anxiously.

She flashed him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "I told you - they just want to ask you some very important questions about the night your dad hurt you."

Clint's eyes widened. "Are they gonna send me back to him?"

"No! They'd never do that now, Clint."

He was silent for a moment. "Do they know where Barney is?"

Natasha sighed. "That's why they're asking you these questions, squirt - so that they might find a clue."

He didn't seem totally convinced, but when the cops eventually showed up he answered all of their questions honestly and in as much detail as they prompted him for. They asked Natasha a few questions too, things about Buck's attitude and what Barney's relationship with him was like. When she mentioned Jacques Duquesne, the name seemed to get their attention. They left with the promise to do their best in finding them, and one even gave Clint a chocolate bar for being so helpful. With his hearing aids temporarily out, the little boy's following "Thank you!" was heard by Coulson in the corridor outside the room.

After letting him blow off some steam as Hawkeye for a bit, Natasha called Phil in and set Clint on his bed with her, aids back in so he could hear her. "Clint, this is Phil Coulson," she said, gesturing at Phil. "He looks after me when I'm looking after you."

"Hello!" Smiling like the little charmer he was, Clint held out a hand for Phil to shake, which he did with a smile himself.

"Hello Clint," he greeted. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Natasha's told me a lot about you."

"Like what?"

"Well," Natasha began, "the last thing I told Phil was something the doctors told me." She paused as Clint cocked his head at her, before announcing, "They say you're well enough to go home now!"

She'd predicted his reaction fairly well; at first his face lit up, delighted as he was that he'd be able to get out of the stuffy ward. Then his shoulders slumped, and a frown replaced the brightness in his eyes. "But I can't go home," he said worriedly. "There's no-one else there. And - and what if Daddy comes back and tries to -"

"You're not going to your old home, Clint," she cut in quickly. "Remember I told you I had a surprise for you yesterday?" He nodded, and she couldn't keep the grin off her face. "Well, the surprise is... You're allowed to stay with me and Phil!"

It wasn't an official adoption - that was a long and complicated bridge they would cross later - but until he was found a place at a care home, Phil had volunteered to let him stay with them. Clint was thrilled, if the way he launched himself at Natasha was anything to go by. “You mean it Tasha? I can stay with you? This is gonna be awesome! The Black Widow teaming up with Hawkeye! We’ll fight evil people together – I can teach you how to use a bow and arrow! And when we’re done, we go back and report to, uh, to Agent Coulson!”

Phil looked miffed at being called an agent again, and Natasha laughed. “Glad you’re excited squirt!”

Clint got that ‘I have an idea’ look in his eye. “We can track down Trickshot together!”

Natasha faltered, looking to Phil when she couldn’t find anything to say. He smiled down at the excited boy. “Natasha made sure your room was made to your liking,” he said. “Would you like to inspect it yourself, Hawkeye?”

Standing to his full height, Clint made a salute. “Yes sir, Agent Coulson!” Then he relaxed, adding sheepishly, “I can call you that, right?”

“Sometimes.”

“Cool!”

“So what do you say, Clint? Ready to head out of here?” Natasha asked.

He nodded enthusiastically. “Um, can I say goodbye to everyone first?”

Once Clint had made his goodbyes, checking out began. It took longer than he liked, and he wasn’t too pleased when Natasha made him take his aids out for the ride home, but once he was in his new room he looked like a kid at Christmas. Phil had painted the old guest room a light purple, with Natasha finding some Robin Hood sheets for the bed and a new bow and arrow set for when he arrived. “Your old one was getting small anyway.”

“I love it!” He cried, testing it out against the window. “Am I really going to live here forever now?”

“Not forever, Clint,” she said, hauling him up into her arms. “You may have to go somewhere else for a bit, but Phil and I are working on it.”

He fell silent, dropping his head on her shoulder and staring out of the window. “And when Barney comes back,” he said after a while, “can he live with us too?”

“Of course,” Natasha said, holding him close. As far as she was concerned, as long as Buck was out of town, Clint was under her protection; until he asked her to stop, that wasn’t going to change, and if Buck Chisholm tried to get him back? Well then the Black Widow wasn’t going to give him up without a fight.

**Author's Note:**

> Omg, I actually finished a multi-chapter piece...! And boy, did I enjoy writing that! Obviously it killed me to write the Barton kids in such trouble, but all those feels... I had to! Anyway, hope every enjoyed it - the general response has been overwhelming! - and if you did like it, why not maybe say so in the little comment box? :D 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who dropped a kudos, and I hope this was worth the wait! Also, keep an eye on things - there may/may not be a very short sequel to round things off... ;-)
> 
> Edit: It's not a sequel, but I have uploaded a tie-in short called 'Bird in the Water'. Check it out if you can please! (24.5.13)


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